‘And the lad on with a lass of his rank,’ said the marquis.
‘Probably that will follow quickly on the close of his present affection. It usually does in our experience,’ said Merton, adding, ‘Am I to write to you at your London address?’
‘No, sir; these London hotels would ruin the cunzie’ (the Mint).
Merton wondered whether the Cunzie was the title of some wealthy Scotch peer.
‘And I’m off for Kirkburn by the night express. Here’s wishing luck,’ and the old sinner finished the brandy.
‘May I call a cab for you—it still rains?’
‘No, no, I’ll travel,’ by which the economical peer meant that he would walk.
He then shook Merton by the hand, and hobbled downstairs attended by his adviser.
‘Did Mr. Logan call?’ Merton asked the office boy when the marquis had trotted off.
‘Yes, sir; he said you would find him at the club.’